


A Map of You and Me

by edenbound



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Exhibitionism, Incest, M/M, Sex, Sex Toys, Spanking, Voyeurism, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a butt plug in Phoenix, Arizona. Sam makes Dean wear it the whole day. Then it kinda escalates, just like their prank wars -- Dean finds a plug that vibrates, and, well, turn about is fair play. And then there's all the rest of it, too: handcuffs and spanking, and finally Sam figures out that Dean kinda likes the idea of being watched when they have sex. And, yeah, he can't deny Dean anything, really, can he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Map of You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kink Big Bang in 2009, on LJ. Thank you to my artist, Aurora. You can find her art [here](http://community.livejournal.com/kink_bigbang/20508.html). And thanks to my girlfriend for the beta.

It's a bar like any other they frequent. Maybe a bit darker than the last, and maybe a bit louder, but it's essentially the same. There was a time when Sam tried to hold onto the details. A crappy painting of a harbour, a washed out watercolour, weird constellations of bright tattered flyers for events long-gone-by and weekend garage sales. The bartender -- male or female, old or young, tired or perky. The quirks of humour, accent, attitude. That was when he felt like his life was sliding away into meaninglessness, when Dad had hurried them from town to town, a month here, a week there.

He knows now that there's no point in trying -- or, at least, that there's something that's more important, something else he needs to spend his energy on. These places are all the same in the end, despite the superficial differences. It might come to matter if they stayed, but they never do, and he's used to that now. It feels right this way, now.

And there's Dean to focus on. Dean looks pretty much just like always, especially in the dim light, but Sam imagines there's more colour in his face, a more awkward slant to his mouth and eyebrows. Secret discomfort. Sam grins, easy, orders them both another drink without even looking at the bartender. He hears Dean's little intake of breath.

He can't understand how he never got it before. How he never understood that it doesn't matter where they are, only that there's him and there's Dean and they're side by side. He has a new mental map across the states now -- a map echoed on Dean's body here and there, in scars, in fading bite marks, in a dusting of freckles from a day in the sun. There's the filthy motel where they first kissed; the first bed they fell into together; the first time Dean let him hold him all night; the first night they slept, dreamless and safe, cocooned together.

This is a brighter map. More precious.

There's something else he's learnt, too. You have to focus on where you are, not where you've been. What you've got, not what you've lost. So there's the motel where he lost his last memento of Jessica, but _there_ is the motel where he gained _Dean_, and there's Dean, right next to him, always somewhere within reach.

Dean, who looks like he has something to say. Sam raises an eyebrow at him. "I thought we were gonna head back to the motel," he says, quietly, evenly. Like he has to make an effort to get the words out. Sam smiles and shrugs and looks away again, like Dean isn't everything, like every particle of him isn't focused on every particle of Dean.

"Who's a spoilsport now?"

"You're the one who said we wouldn't stay out long."

Sam shrugs again. "Well. I thought maybe you could hustle some pool. Get us some spending money. Or I could, if you're not feeling up to it. If you've got too much on your mind."

"I can do it," Dean says. Sam's sure that's a blush at the unnecessary reminder, even though this is _Dean_, who is normally pretty unflappable. At least when it comes to this. He grins.

"Just don't drink too much more, huh?" he says. It sounded like a request, but it's not. It's an order. "I want you to be able to get it up, later."

"Fuck you, man," Dean says, standing up, and Sam watches the little hitch of his movement, the hesitation. The way Dean's eyes flicker, like he wants to close them. He watches the movement of Dean's throat as he swallows, the way he bites down on his lip for that split second.

"Actually, it's my turn to fuck you," he says.

Dean looks away. "Yeah, whatever."

Sam settles back, still grinning, watching Dean. He can wait. This is something he can fix in his memory, this can be a compass point, an 'x' on the map. He's not going to waste this time.

\---

It's totally worth the patience when they finally get back to the hotel room. It's easy to get Dean worked up, but it's not easy to drive him absolutely mad with it like this, to the point where he doesn't mind it when Sam slams him up against something, when he's halfway through a game, kisses him in front of everyone and tells him they're going home. In point of fact, this is the first time Sam's managed that much, but he's definitely going to work on it, do it again, do it _better_.

He's not sure how that works, but messing around with Dean gets better all the time, so it has to be possible.

And he's never going to forget this, the memory of Dean's quick desperate look, the spike of heat that shot through him when Dean just did what he wanted so easily. And this isn't even the end of the night. Sam takes a deep breath, even though that barely helps, barely calms him. He needs to sound steady.

"Get on the bed," he says, and Dean does as he's told, Dean moves to the bed, already anticipating the next order, starting to strip out of his clothes. Easy.

"I don't get how you're so calm," he says, and his voice sounds a little strained, rough, almost hoarse. He throws his shirt on the floor, raising his eyes to Sam's. He looks flushed, almost fevered, but Sam knows what it really is. How much he really _wants_ him.

"I'm not," Sam says, which is true, because he's been hard all evening. Hiding it better than Dean, yeah, but he couldn't stop thinking about it, the whole time, how Dean must be feeling it, how every time he moved -- "Get on your knees. Show me."

"You're such a dick," Dean says, which isn't much of an answer and even smacks a bit of Dean's normal attitude. It doesn't really matter, though, 'cause he kicks his shoes off, undoes his pants, slides them off and then gets up on the bed, just like Sam wanted. He isn't even acting all embarrassed and hesitant now, so into it that he doesn't stop to think. He just kneels there, and Sam can see -- he takes a deep breath and steps closer, making Dean move, making him move so he can see --

"You've been an ass all day," he says, calmly, even though his cock is throbbing, pressing up uncomfortably inside his underwear, and he's sure the head is leaking pre-come, sticky and wet. It's distracting, but he has to be in control right now, because Dean sure as hell isn't going to be. Not when they're like this. He's never even seen Dean like this before, and he doesn't want to fall short -- he has to match it, has to make Dean so crazy, keep pushing him further. He pushes gently at the base of the plug inside Dean, grins at his little gasp, the way he suddenly rocks away from it and then into it.

"Gee, I wonder why," Dean says, but Sam can see that he's shaking with it -- with want, with tension.

"Don't talk back like that, Dean. Show some respect." He pushes at the plug again, twists it in deeper, and Dean shakes harder, moans. "I'm in charge, remember?"

"For today," Dean says, and then, offering it up reluctantly, he adds, "Sir."

Sam takes a deep breath. It sounds good, the way Dean says that: a little rough, just a little hesitant. Not easy, but real. It makes Sam's cock throb uncomfortably again. He ignores it, though -- for now -- and plays with the plug again, twisting and pushing and making Dean squirm, until he starts making these little noises, half-moans, almost whimpers. "Tell me what you want," Sam says, then.

"You," he says, quickly, "sir." Which is nice, but not good enough. Sam pulls back a bit, slaps Dean lightly -- just lightly, because this isn't something they've really talked about -- on the hip. Dean squirms, and Sam thinks maybe they don't have to talk about it, maybe he can push it just a bit further without that. He slaps Dean's other hip.

"That's not good enough, Dean."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me what you want. All of it. Don't hide anything from me."

Dean squirms again, awkwardly. "Sammy -- "

Another light slap, and Dean takes in a breath, sharply, rocking into it a little. Sam didn't expect him to react quite that much, but he keeps the surprise out of his voice, pushes down the hot swirl of need. He finds sternness, tries not to think about how he sounds like their dad. "Dean."

"Sir," Dean says, correcting himself. Sam glances at him, at his face. Definitely flushed, now; he's biting at his lips again, closing his eyes tightly, screwing them shut. His lips look a little swollen, puffy, from the scrape of his teeth.

"Tell me what you want," he says, forcing it out, forcing it to sound easy.

Dean isn't normally bad at talking about what he wants, in one way. He's perfectly happy to talk dirty, to tell Sam it's good and that it's just what he wants, tell Sam he looks pretty stuffed full of cock or that he wants to fuck him or whatever -- but he's always been bad at asking for things he really, really wants. Like this. Sam never knew Dean would even like something like this, being made to wear a butt plug all day while they go about their normal lives. He'd suggested it almost as a joke, but then he'd caught Dean's reaction, the slight guilty look in his eyes, and he'd known that this was something he really actually wanted, something he'd never ask for. Something he won't let himself ask for.

Dean's spent most of his life doing, one way or another, what he thinks Sam needs. Even, usually, what he thinks he wants. It's only right for Sam to reciprocate, sometimes -- even though it might be too little too late, in some ways.

Sam's going to make it enough, somehow.

"You," Dean says again, "I just want you." He swallows hard, and Sam waits, like he's got all the time and patience in the world. "I want you -- to do whatever you want. To take whatever you want."

He runs a hand over Dean's side. "You'll let me do whatever I want, huh? Fuck you hard, hit you, make you wait and wait before I let you come? You want that, Dean?"

"Do what you want," he says, still not quite submissive, still with that edge of _Dean_. But wanting it, wanting it all the same. It makes Sam's stomach twist, honestly, with how much Dean trusts him.

"I'll make you feel so good," Sam tells him. He reaches around him, wraps his hand around his cock and squeezes. "You've been waiting all day for this, haven't you? Every time you moved, you could feel it, every time you sat down it pushed so deep into you, didn't it? Did you like it? Were you hard?"

Dean takes a deep breath, like he's trying to steady himself. It doesn't work, because he's still shaking, a little tremor of tenseness, an inability to let go and relax into it. Sam will get him there, in the end, he'll have Dean just relaxing into the feeling, trusting Sam, trusting everything to Sam and letting himself go. It'll take time, though, and he has to be patient. Give Dean what he wants, what he needs.

"Dean," he says, gently. "Tell me."

"Yes. I -- All day. I was hard all day. Sir." Dean sounds jerky, unsettled, _desperate_.

Sam takes a deep breath of his own and steps away from Dean, leaving him just kneeling there on the bed. He can't really take his eyes off the plug, now, pushing so deep into Dean. He's going to be so slick inside with all the lube Sam used to put it in there, he's going to be so hot, and so ready, and -- Sam squeezes himself through his pants, once, because he's so hard it almost hurts, now, and if he keeps thinking like this he's not going to be as patient, as thorough as he'd like. He moves another step away from the bed, so he can get the whole picture. He looks Dean over as he starts to undress, pulling his shirt up over his head quickly, so he doesn't have to take his eyes off Dean for long.

"You look so good," he tells him. "So hot. Just waiting for me. Stay still. Don't look at me. Just wait, like that."

Dean nods. Sam wonders if it's because he can't really speak, already gone somewhere beyond words. That's hot, too, that's surprisingly hot, twisting something tighter in the pit of his stomach. He toes his shoes off, kicks his pants and boxers off, and then goes to sit on the bed in front of Dean.

"You want to suck me off?" he asks, casually as he can, leaning back into the pillows. Dean moans, not looking up at him, just looking at his cock. He nods again. "Say it."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, almost whispers, and Sam cups his cheek and makes him look up.

"Louder."

"I want to suck your cock, sir," Dean says, and it's kind of defiant, which makes Sam think maybe he should punish Dean somehow, make him wait -- but it's hot, too, it's so fucking hot, and Sam just wants to fuck his mouth, push in deep. He knows Dean will take it -- knows Dean likes to, and wonders why he's never bothered to push these boundaries before.

"Okay," he says, ignoring the idiot tenderness that's creeping in. "Move closer. Open your mouth."

Dean does as he's told right away and Sam smiles, gets comfortable, shifting the pillows around. Then he wraps his hand around his cock, strokes himself once or twice, rubs his thumb over the tip, spreading pre-come.

"How much do you want it, Dean? You want to taste me? You want me to fill your mouth up with it?"

Dean moans. "Sam -- sir... Let me... I want it so much."

Sam gets one hand in Dean's hair, guides him closer again, tugs a little just because he can. He rubs the tip of his cock over Dean's lips, spreading the little slick of pre-come there. Dean just looks up at him, his eyes wide, his mouth opening just a little more, and it's so fucking hot. Sam's never seen Dean quite like this -- he likes sex a lot, he makes no secret about that, but he's never seen him let go and let someone else be in charge.

He thinks, maybe, that's what Dean needs now and then, that he's put his finger on it here and now, but he can't say that. Instead he just pushes into Dean's mouth a little, making a soft noise when Dean's teeth scrape, just a little, over the tip of his cock. "Suck," he says, and Dean's eyes dip closed for a second, and he starts to suck eagerly, running his tongue over the head and sucking hard and making a little noise like it's the best thing ever. The kind of noise he makes when he's just bitten into a really good apple pie, or something, and that's kind of not what Sam wants to think about right now, with Dean's teeth so close against his cock, but at least Dean seems like he's getting what he really wants, and that's what Sam wants this to be about.

Well, that and seeing his big brother take orders from him for once, but that's mostly just a perk.

"You want more?" he asks Dean, but he doesn't wait for any kind of response before he's sliding in deeper, pulling Dean's head down more. Dean moans around him, and -- Christ, that feels good, the little vibrations of it, and Dean sucking harder again, bobbing his head a little. Sam's hand clenches in his hair, pulls at the short strands. He wishes Dean's hair was just a bit longer, so he could really hold on -- but it doesn't matter, this is good, this is really fucking good. "You like this, huh? You love having my cock inside you. I bet you want me to fuck you, don't you? You've been waiting for it all day. Were you thinking about it when we were in the library? Hoping I'd say, okay, Dean, let's do it?"

It's kind of effortless, talking like that, which is a good thing because this is actually blowing Sam's mind quite a bit. He can't quite think straight -- Dean's mouth is hot and wet and so perfect, so good, and he really loves doing this so he's doing his best to make it good. Doing his best to _be_ good, and shit, that's so hot too.

Sam is definitely going to do this to him more often -- make him wait all day, or whatever it takes to make him so desperate that he'll take Sam's orders, do stuff like this. He's going to do this as often as he can.

"I bet you're clenching around the plug," he says, desperately, breathlessly, "bet you wish it was bigger, deeper, bet you wish I'd just pull it out and fuck you stupid -- "

Dean moans again, and _Jesus Christ_.

"You want me to come in your mouth?" he asks. He was planning to last, in the vague half-formed plan he had before -- but he didn't think about this, didn't think about how -- "Do you want me to come now? Want to swallow it? Or do you want it on your face?"

Dean moans deeper, and shit -- that's good, that's -- Sam takes a couple of deep breaths.

"Was that a yes, Dean? You want it on your face?"

Another moan, and Dean's sucking harder, taking Sam in as deep as he can, and Sam has to try not to come just like that. He rocks deep into Dean's mouth for a moment, trying to drag it out. He hopes Dean isn't going to remember this afterwards and tease him about how fast he came, because this is _too good_, and he's lasted for-fucking-ever all things considered.

He pulls Dean back by his hair, pulls his head back so he can see his face, keeps gripping his hair tightly and pulls all the way out of his mouth, and lets himself come. He can't keep his eyes open, and it's so good he doesn't know how to -- He opens his eyes as soon as he can, still panting, still rocking his hips up, and looks, and --

"Fuck, Dean," he says, and Dean just looks up at him, his face covered in come, his mouth still open -- licking some off his lip to taste it, and Sam feels like he might come all over again.

He kind of hopes the rest of it isn't quite this good, because if he comes as hard as that more than once in a night, he's not going to want to move for the next three days. He's not sure he wants to move now. Except Dean is hard, he can see, and panting, and wanting so much and -- okay, yeah, he's got to do something about that, he's going to. He's going to make Dean feel so damn good, he's going to make Dean think it'll never end, he's going to make him love it so much.

"Dean," he says again, and pulls him up, kisses him hard, and he's been waiting for that all day, too, the way Dean opens to him, the way they fit and kiss each other just right.

\---

"This is lame," Sam says. His cheeks are flushed though, he knows that, and he knows it shows when he hesitates before sitting down, the little pause before he settles his weight. He knows Dean is watching.

"Why d'you say that?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. He picks up the menu, trying to act like he's more interested in that than in Sam, but Sam can see the way he's glancing over the top of the menu, not wanting to miss a moment of today. Sam knows how he feels. He was the same way, when he did this to Dean, probably just as distracted by Dean as Dean was by the plug inside him. He squirms a little, gasping a little when the plug nudges that bit deeper into him. He takes a deep breath, feeling hot, suffocated by want. He tries not to show it.

"You're not one-upping me. It totally doesn't count if you just do the same thing as I did to you," he says. "And I always last longer than you without begging anyway."

"I didn't beg," Dean says, a little sharply.

"You did," Sam says, and shifts again, pauses before he tries to imitate Dean's voice. "Oh, Sammy, please, sir, I want -- "

"Shut up," Dean says, huffing softly. He leans back in his seat and puts the menu down. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

"What doesn't?"

"I'm not doing the same as you. Not exactly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll see," Dean says, and the look on his face makes Sam's stomach twist and knot, because that's the look he's got when he's thought of something really good, and he's planning on exploiting it for all he's worth. The kind of look he got when he put Nair in Sam's shampoo, or itching powder in his boxers. When he's got a plan and he knows it's a good one.

"Dean -- "

"Hi," Dean says, to the waitress, grinning up at her. "I'll have -- "

Sam realises, after, that he doesn't remember what Dean ordered. More than that, he doesn't remember what _he_ ordered -- or what the waitress looked like, or what colour the seats were. He doesn't remember anything but the feeling, the urgency he had to deny. The whole time he was just thinking about Dean, and about the plug inside him, and the way if he rocked his weight just a little it'd press into his prostate, and how he did that by accident halfway through his drink -- whatever it was -- and nearly inhaled the damn stuff.

He remembers Dean, too, the way he was watching him, the hot focus in his eyes, and the way he didn't touch Sam, not once, not even by accident. The way he looked sometimes, when he was _so obviously_ thinking about however he was planning to one-up Sam. The calculating sort of look.

He clenches his fists. He knows Dean will drag it out the whole day, just like he did. He has to focus, though -- they've got a job, for god's sake, and he needs to go in and talk to little old ladies, perfectly calm, perfectly nice, like butter won't melt in his mouth, with the plug so deep inside him, pushing up against his prostate every time he settles back in a chair.

And this is something Dean wants, something else he can give Dean -- under the trying to one-up each other, that's what it is, if all was said and done and they were telling the truth. He's doing something for Dean and part of the heat and spark is just that, just the knowledge that he's doing this for Dean, that Dean loves it.

He takes a deep breath.

Dean, beside him, driving, smirks. Then he reaches into his pocket for something.

\---

"Dean, please," Sam says. Dean presses him back against the wall, kissing him, and he can hardly breathe. He curls his fingers in Dean's shirt, kisses back every time, but it's so _much_. Anybody could see them, if they walk past the alleyway, but he kind of doesn't care, moving against Dean, rubbing against him, urgent. "Come on. Please."

"Had that thing vibrating inside you all day," Dean says, pulling back a little. There's barely an inch between their bodies, but it's too much. Sam pushes against Dean's hold, tries to pull him closer. Needs him closer, needs touch, heat, _Dean_. Dean doesn't budge, the asshole, even know he must know -- he just grins. "How are you feelin', Sparky?"

"Shut up and let me come already," Sam says, biting his lip. He's so hard it hurts, and it never lets up, this steady buzz deep inside him, snug up against his prostate. He'd thought it'd be maddening enough wearing an ordinary butt plug all day, but this -- this is so much worse. And Dean's been taking advantage of it for all he's worth, constantly turning the vibrations on. Even when Sam was talking to sweet old ladies about the _job_. He has no idea how he's managed to concentrate on anything at all.

"Hey, Sammy, remember who's in charge today."

"Didn't agree to take orders, just to wear this damn thing."

Dean shrugs. "Well, I could always leave you longer. If you don't want to show any respect to the guy who gets to say whether you come or not."

"Jerk," Sam says, squirming a little, because it's too much, way too much.

"Bitch," Dean says, because he's predictable, and then he's pressing up against Sam again, close and real, solid. Sam can feel the hardness of his cock against his hip. "Come on, Sammy. Play along, huh? It won't kill you. And it's what I want. Just... do what I want."

Sam hesitates and then nods, because he has to, because that's what this is all about. It isn't just doing what Dean wants when he gets to call the shots -- it's this, too, letting Dean take control, letting Dean have him. Because he _is_ Dean's, as much as Dean is his. "As long as you're not an ass about it."

"Says the guy who made me beg and plead for _hours_."

"You liked that."

"And you'd like it too." Dean rolls his eyes and presses in closer. He kisses Sam again, and it's easy to relax into it. Dean takes control of this one, kissing him deep and wet, hands just moving over his chest, not even pushing up under his shirt. He rubs over his nipples, through his shirt, pinches them lightly. But he's focusing on the kiss, like he's planning on blowing Sam's mind with kisses alone -- and Sam has to admit, he could do it. Dean's had a lot of practice at kissing, after all.

"Dean," he says, when Dean pulls back a bit. "Please."

"You want me to touch you?" Dean asks. "Take the edge off?"

"Yes," Sam says, biting his lip. "Yes. Now."

"Say please, Sammy. What did I say about respect?"

"Goddamnit, Dean, please. Now." Sam lets his head loll back against the wall, tries to catch Dean's eyes, plead with more than words. "Please."

"Anyone could see," Dean says, but he doesn't seem to care. He undoes Sam's belt, unbuttons his jeans, slipping a hand inside to cup Sam's cock through his boxers. "You've been leaking, huh? All damn day. You want me so bad. You don't even care if someone catches us, you just want to come."

"You've been driving me crazy," Sam says, rocking into the touch, panting softly.

"I should've got you a cock ring, too. Kept you hard all day."

"Didn't need to," he says, breathlessly, and groans when Dean squeezes his cock. Dean grins, pushes Sam's pants down a little so he can get to him easier. Peels his boxers down too, and then wraps a hand around his cock, and bare skin to bare skin -- fuck, that's more intense, and Sam nearly comes just like that. He is pretty good at driving Dean crazy, but at this rate he's going to have to admit that Dean's just as good at turning the tables. He takes a deep breath, sinks his teeth into his lip until he tastes blood, to try and keep some semblance of control.

As long as he doesn't have to admit it _aloud_, it's fine.

Dean knows, though, the asshole. He knows just exactly what he's doing to Sam. He grins. "Hard all day, huh? I bet you were. Now you know how it feels. Maybe I shouldn't let you come. Maybe I should just do this -- " he squeezes Sam's cock again, strokes once and then stops, just holding, pressure and contact without movement -- "and then stop, and just leave you hanging, and then do it again and again, until -- "

"Dean, please," Sam says, hastily, rocking his hips. Dean looks too much like he thinks that's an _awesome_ idea. "Please, just let me -- you said you'd let me -- "

"I didn't say I would. I suggested it."

"You're... oh, fuck. You're pure evil." He's pretty sure he doesn't sound impressive, though. He's pretty sure he sounds like a wreck, like someone who really needs to come and doesn't have that much control. The damn butt plug is still vibrating inside him, after all -- and then Dean makes it worse, pulls Sam away from the wall a bit and gets a hand behind him, presses against the base of the plug so it presses in deeper, just right, too much -- "Dean, please. Please. Goddamnit, please -- "

The words just keep on rolling out, just as sincere as the way he was ordering Dean around. Just as real.

Dean pulls back a little and just looks at him. Sam doesn't really mind being looked at, normally. He's not self-conscious, anyway. But the way Dean's looking at him now -- it's like a physical touch, just one more thing to overload him -- and the way the damn thing is vibrating inside him -- and Dean's hand around his cock --

"Please," he says again, closing his eyes tightly, arching into Dean's body. The tip of his cock rubs against Dean's jeans, and the rough touch of the denim is almost too much.

"Don't come," Dean says, his voice gritty, like he can't stand much more of this either. "Not yet. Want to -- just hold on, Sam."

Less an order than a plea, that, but Sam doesn't call him on it. Can't call him on it.

"Want me to touch you?" he asks, biting his lip, trying to ignore the way the pleasure is knotting tight in him, drawing together, almost too much. Dean is in charge, after all. Kind of.

"No," Dean says, pressing in closer again. Their foreheads knock together, noses bump, and then he kisses Sam deeply, wetly, pushing his tongue into his mouth. He's pressed so close that Sam's cock is rubbing up against denim again, and it's too much -- it's just too goddamn much, in a day that has been too goddamn much in itself. Sam grabs at Dean again, holds on tight, arches away from the wall and into his body, coming so goddamn hard that he thinks his knees are going to give, that maybe he might actually pass out, and Dean is going to mock him forever, but --

"Dean," he whispers, shakily, and Dean kisses him again, sweeter, slower.

"Jesus, Sam," he says, biting at his lip, sucking, nuzzling against him. He's touching him all over -- hands up under Sam's shirt now, resting against his stomach like he just needs to touch him. "We need to get out of here. Go to a motel. We're going to get caught like this."

But he doesn't move, and Sam wonders for a second -- but then Dean's kissing him again, and there are more important things to wonder about, like whether he can stand up right, and he suspects the answer to _that_ question is no.

"Are you going to turn it off?" he asks, when coherent speech is just about possible, and Dean grins again, pulls back a little.

"Of course not, Sammy," he says. "You've gotta wear it all day, like I wore mine. That's fair, isn't it?"

And it manifestly isn't, because Dean didn't have to have something sat up against his prostate _vibrating_ all goddamn day, but Dean looks -- he looks kind of happy, pleased, and Sam likes seeing that look there -- even if this time it's at his own expense. So for some reason, he says nothing.

And anyway, Dean's the one who got covered in come, mostly. He can feel kind of smug about that.

\---

This isn't really getting his own back, or he didn't mean it to be, but it looks like he might, after all, have made a good choice. It's a better alleyway than the last one -- shorter, maybe, but darker, and there's a sort of alcove that he can push Dean back into. He looks good -- flushed, open-mouthed, unable to believe what Sam's actually doing. That's alright: Sam can hardly believe it himself.

He's been teasing Dean all day. Just little touches, little looks, and a brief moment of brushing up against him, whispering in his ear -- it isn't much, but it's built up. More than he thought, even, and he wasn't prepared for the way Dean kissed him when they _finally_ got back to the car. Not that he was exactly prepared for his own reaction, either. Somehow it's like he can never get enough of Dean, and it always surprises him, even though it really shouldn't. So he'd pushed Dean down here, without really thinking, without really planning anything. Just wanting him, as fast as possible.

But it's perfect. It really is.

Sam is on his knees on the concrete. It hurts, a little, and there might be glass down there from the way it feels, but he's not really focused on that. He's focused on the way Dean is touching him -- one hand cupping the back of his neck, warm and familiar, and the other just touching him, wherever he can reach. Touching his face. He runs his fingers over Sam's cheek, feeling the bulge of his own cock there, and groans.

"Sammy -- "

Sam pulls back, not really to tease, just so he can talk -- a little reluctantly himself, actually, because he likes sucking Dean off, likes the weight and the taste and the shape, and most of all the feeling that he's doing something for Dean, just for Dean. He grins up at him, though, licks the taste from his lips. "Anyone could catch us here, you know," he says, almost like Dean back in that alleyway on that horrible wonderful interminable day with the goddamn vibrating butt plug. It almost comes with capital letters in his mind -- The Day Of The Vibrating Butt Plug. He kisses at Dean's hip, licks for the brief taste of sweat, digs his fingers into his skin, because Dean likes to feel it. "Anyone could. They'd just have to walk past. Could even be someone we know. A hunter. We'd be caught. They'd know -- "

And he's right, he was right when he thought -- Dean trembles, shudders a little at the thought, but if anything, he's harder, the slick of pre-come -- Sam has to lick again, to taste, and Dean groans, both fingers now in Sam's hair, tugging gently.

"Everyone'd see you," he says, breathless. "Everyone'd see you, on your knees for me. Anyone could. They'd know what you do for me -- what I make you do -- "

Sam laughs. "Or what I make you do." He licks again, teasing. "They might all find out how I can make you moan. _Whimper_. They'd find out that your little brother can make you fall apart -- "

"Sammy, please," Dean says, his cock jerking a little, his fingers tightening again in Sam's hair. "Please. Just -- just suck me off already. Fucking tease."

"You like this, though." Sam wraps his hand around Dean's cock, light pressure, licking at the tip. "You like the thought that someone might catch us. You _want_ someone to catch us, almost. Don't you? Don't you want that?"

"I -- "

"I'll find someone, someday. Someone to watch us. Maybe we'll go to a bar and pick someone up together."

"_Sam_ \-- " Dean gasps, almost panting now. Sam's talking almost at random, just talking to make Dean gasp and shudder, but it's hot, it's so fucking hot, the thought of someone watching them. Maybe, maybe someone watching him do this, take Dean in. Sam does it properly now, taking Dean's cock in deep and sucking, deep as he can, hot and wet as he can. He moans around Dean and Dean jerks. "Sammy -- "

He sounds so fucking good. He always does -- of course he does -- but this is different, this is almost new. There's a rawness, like something's cutting to the bone, like Sam's got inside his skin and pulled out something unexpected. And it is, kind of, unexpected. Except that Sam remembers that other time, that other alleyway. Sam wonders if Dean would ever have told him. Whether he wanted him to know, or whether he wanted to keep it a secret. Whether he's shamed. Whether he just can't ask for something that's just for him.

But then, so much that Dean does is really for Sammy. Always for him, everything Dean does, and it's stupid, kneeling in an alleyway and thinking this like it's a fucking revelation, but it makes Sam's chest seize tight with want and love, affection. He doesn't pull back again, doesn't try to say it, only to show it, sucking harder and just resting his hands on Dean's hips now, thumbs caressing the line of bone.

It doesn't take long. It feels like forever, and it feels like no time at all -- it takes so long because he imagines footsteps, imagines someone coming to find them, and he imagines how it'd feel -- someone actually _seeing_ them, maybe even knowing who they are, or at least knowing they're brothers. They still always say brothers, and try to act it, even though there's all this under the surface. People are less and less convinced every time, and it doesn't help their case any when they're saying crazy things and they want to be believed. Sam wonders if someone seeing them, really seeing them, seeing them like this, would take the lid off it for good.

He doesn't know if he wants to find out.

It feels like it's no time at all, like it's over too fast, because nobody _does_ catch them, and it's just all them, everything they normally do.

He knows when Dean's going to come. How could he not? He knows Dean so well. He knows every inch of him by heart, after all, flesh and blood and bone. All of it. Dean's fingers seize tighter in his hair, and he's pushing in with sudden new urgency, Sam's name caught in his throat, a half-breathed plea --

"Sammy," Dean says, just that, but it's everything.

Sam feels shaky, after, like he's the one who came, which is stupid. Dean kisses him like they might never get chance again, pressing up close to him, and then he pushes him back against the wall and undoes his pants and sticks his hand in. He drags a whimper from Sam right away -- he's so turned on, and Dean always knows just how to touch him.

"Gonna make you feel so good," Dean whispers, and Sam closes his eyes tighter, bites his lip, rocking into it.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, you always do."

\---

Dean looks uncomfortable. He looks fucking gorgeous too -- Sam's already had him take his shirt off, and it's a warm day and the AC is barely working, so there's a light sheen of sweat on his skin. The sweat might be partly discomfort, too, though, and he isn't relaxed at all. He's lying there like he's just waiting for something to go wrong, his hands cuffed above his head, attached to the bed. He's half-hard, which isn't bad -- Sam teases him about being nearly thirty and losing his teenage vigour. This can just be fuel to the fire.

He looks good, but this isn't what Sam wants at all if Dean isn't going to _relax_.

"Trust me, Dean," Sam says, with a little huff. "If you really hate it, you can be out of those handcuffs in ten minutes, max."

"Not without something to pick them open."

"You'd find something. Come on. Don't you want it?"

Dean shifts slightly. "I'll try it."

"This can't be the first time anyone's ever wanted to tie you up for sex," Sam says, trying not to show the brief stab of jealousy when he thinks about it, when he thinks about Dean with other people. He's been used to dealing with that since he was ten. He'd been jealous then of anyone who took Dean away, in fact. Now Dean's his, so all that doesn't matter.

"It's the first time I've let someone," Dean says, and he swallows like that was somehow difficult to say, and it makes Sam's heart lurch a little.

"It'll be good." He hesitates for a moment, wondering if what he's got in mind might be a little too much, but then he decides _hell with it_ and picks up the cloth anyway, the cloth that's just the right shape and size to be tied around Dean's head, just the right shape and size to be a blindfold. Dean's eyes flicker to it and Sam waits a heartbeat, waits for him to freak or something. Then he'll tease Dean forever, but really he'll understand. They're normally the people who do things, not the ones who sit around helpless. Being helpless is something neither of them has ever liked, and it makes sense if it carries into this context too...

But Dean just smirks. "Don't you want to gag me, too?"

"No," Sam says, already moving to fasten the rag around Dean's eyes, 'cause that wasn't a no. That means, at the very least, a hesitant yes, because Dean knows he can say no to Sam. At least when they're like this. "I want to hear you."

He didn't mean that to sound quite as possessive as it comes out, but it doesn't matter, and Dean takes it the right way, squirming a little.

"Is this it?" Dean asks, when Sam's got him properly blindfolded, and fuck -- Sam just loves him so fucking much, and it's such a stupid thing to think right now. But it's true. Dean's uncomfortable and not quite happy but he's just going along with it for Sam, and that's so fucking amazing and he loves him so much.

Well, he's not going along with it quite just for Sam, 'cause he knows -- he must know -- that saying no is okay, but mostly he's saying yes to please Sam and that's amazing. That's Dean all over, so completely him it's predictable, but it's good. It's good.

"Of course not," he says, trying to ignore the fact that he feels just a little giddy. God, if Dean knew, how hard would he be teasing him right now? Or maybe not right now -- not when he's tied up at his baby brother's mercy -- but eventually, once the mindblowing sex was over, maybe. "You think I'm that uninventive?"

Dean shrugs a little, despite the awkward way he's handcuffed. "Talk is cheap."

Sam just smirks. He does, in fact, have more plans -- it's nothing much, really, but it's different and he's pretty sure it's going to be mindblowing for both of them, all things considered.

"I'm gonna fuck you," he says, getting on the bed. He straddles Dean's body, barely touching, but so that Dean knows he's there, and leans down to whisper in his ear. "I'm gonna do it so slowly, so carefully. I'm going to blow your fucking mind."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, just a little shaky, still trying to sound cocky. Sam grins, nuzzling a little at the side of his face.

"Yeah," he says, grabbing the lube. He's so fucking hard already, just looking at Dean like this. Hell, if he was blind this'd still be amazing, knowing he has Dean spread out like this. He doesn't have to see it to find it fucking amazing. He slicks his cock carefully. He's probably using too much lube -- it makes a thick, obscene sound under his fingers -- but he needs there to be plenty. He pushes Dean's legs apart and settles between them. "Ready, Dean?"

"Do your worst," Dean says, all cocky. Sam just smiles and presses the tip of his cock up against Dean's entrance. He hasn't fucked him in a couple of days, so he's a little tight -- that's just going to make things even better. He keeps it slow, though, because of that -- well, maybe he would anyway, but especially because of that. Dean shudders under him, opens to him, and it'd be so fucking easy to just shove right in. He knows Dean could take it, would probably like it, though he'd be sore afterwards, would probably bitch in the morning. It'd be so easy, but this is sweet too, this feels so fucking good. Easy as it is, he's tight too, and Sam doesn't think he's going to last very long.

He wants to bury his face in Dean's shoulder, but more than that he wants to watch him, so he takes his weight on his arms enough that he can. Dean's biting his lip, and he suddenly wishes he hadn't blindfolded him, so he could see his eyes -- whether they'd crinkle with the force of him shutting them, or whether they'd be wide and open. And he kind of wishes Dean weren't handcuffed, 'cause he wants to feel Dean's hands on him. He glances up and he can see the way Dean's hands have curled into fists, the way his blunt nails are digging into his palms. There's strain there, still, and he hasn't quite relaxed, but that kind of makes it better, imagining Dean's hands on him, holding, digging in.

"Fuck, Sammy."

"Sshh," Sam says, not really sure why he's saying it, but then he's making more soothing noises as he pushes in deeper and Dean tenses up tighter, wound up tight under him. He frees up a hand to touch him properly -- brushing over his nipples, his stomach, teasing at his cock with the lightest of touches. "Ssh, come on, it's okay."

Dean says something incomprehensible, but then there's an unmistakeable moan when Sam rocks in deep again. Sam watches, watches him arch and squirm -- and yes, he fucking squirms, and it looks so good because there's a flush in his cheeks and he's tugging at the handcuffs and he looks as if it's going to be a little too much for him, after all. Sam's going to keep going anyway, because he wants to see Dean when it's too much, wants to see him on the edge and falling off it.

He'll be there to catch him, of course. Always.

"Wanna hear you, Dean," he says. Dean's head is tilting back, exposing his neck, and Sam resists for a minute but then he leans in and bites and sucks and leaves his marks there, better than crosses on a map, a surer reminder of where and what home is, for both of them. Dean shudders again, arching up more. It's hard to keep moving slow, but Sam does it. This can't hurt Dean, at all, this has got to be completely good, and it's more about Dean than about him.

Although he's got to get his own back, too, try and make it last, try and make Dean last. Make him wait for it.

He doesn't know how long it really lasts. It's amazing, every minute of it, feeling every shake and quiver of Dean's body, hearing the noises he'd deny, feeling everything. The way he arches up.

It might not even last that long, Sam doesn't honestly know, but when Dean comes it's amazing -- he tenses even more under him, squeezes around him, groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt -- and Sam can't help but come too, thrusting in harder and deeper and feeling racked by it, holding onto Dean so tightly because he doesn't want there to be any space between them. He can feel Dean's come slick on his skin, and Dean's still squirming and --

It takes quite a long time for him to find coherence again. If you can call it coherence. "Okay?"

"M'yeah," Dean says, without moving. It takes another couple of minutes before he summons up the energy to speak again. "Handcuffs?"

"Right," Sam says. He pulls out of Dean and fumbles for the keys, gets the handcuffs undone quickly. There are red marks on Dean's wrists, and thin lines of broken skin, rubbed raw. "Huh. Is that -- "

"It stings, that's all."

"Right."

"C'mere," Dean says, and kisses him. Now he can touch him and that's nice, even if Sam doesn't want to think about another round. Dean's fingers push through his hair, almost massaging, and the kiss is easy, open, a little wet. Sloppy but perfect.

Sam feels somewhat justified, if also somewhat ridiculous, when he grabs Dean's wrists and kisses the marks. Dean doesn't even protest. He doesn't really speak again until they're half-asleep.

"That was weak, Sammy," he whispers.

"You keep telling yourself that," Sam whispers back, because Dean fucking loved it.

\---

He has no idea what the room is like. He doesn't normally pay that much attention, these days, except for scoping out potential escape routes, potential ways they could be attacked. But this time he's been too much in a haze to even think of that -- trusting to Dean. Which is not a stupid idea, because Dean is as paranoid as hell and they can't be in any danger, but it goes against long habit. Nobody's perfect, no matter how good they are.

The only thing he's really noticed about the room is the mirror, and that's because he can see himself in it. He can see himself laying across Dean's lap naked, he can see the stupid flush in his cheeks and the way he's moving, moving against Dean, moving for more.

He can see the red hand-shaped print on his ass, where Dean has hit him, bright and sharp. He thinks he'd probably be able to see the individual fingers, if the mirror was closer. He makes this little noise in his throat, because that's hotter than anything, and drops his head. "Dean, fuck, please," he says.

"Never figured you'd like this," Dean says, running his fingers over the mark, pressing gently. "I've done it with a couple of girls before, 'cause they asked, but I didn't think you'd..."

"Dean, please," Sam says, again, because this is ridiculous, ridiculously much, and he wants Dean _so bad_. "Do it again, come on."

"Maybe I should have done this long ago," Dean says, teasing. He slaps Sam again, hard and quick, and Sam can't deny the way his cock jerks, the way he presses into it. "Put you over my knee and spanked you. Would that have made you a good boy, Sammy? No, wait -- maybe you'd have misbehaved just to get this."

Sam thinks that maybe his cheeks are even pinker now. "Dean -- "

"What?"

"Don't get carried away with yourself," Sam says, even though he's squirming in Dean's lap and he knows that it must look like this is something he's wanted forever, something he's wanted so much... It's not, though, it's new and scary and amazing, and more so because he never thought he'd want something like this. "Dean, come on."

"What do you want? More of this?" Dean asks, slapping lightly this time, like a tease. "Or this?" He shifts slightly, makes Sam move, and touches him lightly, circling, just dipping a finger inside him. Sam moans at both. Dean's tone is teasing, too. "Hard to tell when you won't be clear about what you want, Sammy."

Sam thinks that maybe he does look ridiculously young, judging from the mirror, like this across Dean's lap. He closes his eyes, not wanting to look, but Dean notices.

"Don't want to look any more? Maybe you should. Open your eyes, Sam," he says, and because it's Dean's turn to be in charge, more or less, Sam does as he's told. They look amazing, they really do -- and Dean is as flushed as him, really. He looks almost giddy with it, his eyes hot and focused, and they're mostly focused all on Sam, looking down at him, looking down at the mark he's making. The _marks_, plural now, some clearer than others but all there and obvious and Sam can't look away. He moans softly and Dean smiles. "Look good, don't we?"

"Yeah," Sam says, because that's just telling the truth. He squirms again, rubbing his cock against Dean's leg, and kind of moans, but it sounds more like a whimper. "More, Dean."

"You like the marks," Dean says, without moving. He's watching Sam carefully.

He has to choke out the answer. Not because he doesn't want to say it, but because this is all too fucking much. "Yes. _Come on_."

Dean slaps him once more, obliging, but then his fingers move down again, one fingertip pushes inside him dry. Sam squirms against it -- it doesn't feel bad, not a tiny invasion like that, but it feels like a tease, a promise. "You want me to fuck you, Sammy? I bet you do. I bet it won't even take much for you to come. So desperate, aren't you?"

Sam groans again and Dean pulls away. He doesn't push Sam off his lap, but there's an awkward minute while he's hooking the shoulder strap of his bag, tugging it over close and leaning to search for the lube. It seems to take forever. There's air conditioning in this room, turned up too high, and though a minute ago Sam was burning up with want, now he's feeling the chill of it. He shivers a little, pressing himself firmer against Dean's body. "Hurry up."

"Impatient," Dean says, laughing a little, and shifts slightly at his weird angle, leans to press a kiss between Sam's shoulderblades. "Just wait a minute. I thought I was the one who always wants instant gratification."

There's nothing to say to that. Sam's about to move -- to lie down on the bed, maybe, spread his legs -- but Dean stops him.

"Want you like this," he says, and there's the little click of the lube's lid, and then a second after the chill of the stuff against his skin. Dean just teases though, rubbing and rubbing, not using any real pressure, not giving Sam anything. He rocks a little, trying to get more, and gets another sharp slap that makes him arch his back.

"Dean -- "

"Sshh," Dean says, pushing one finger into him. "Just let me... God, Sam, you're always so fucking tight."

"Dean," Sam says, almost pleadingly, and thinks that if there was anyone listening but Dean they'd have to excuse the whine in his voice. It's totally justified. "Please."

"You always drive me so crazy," he says, conversationally, just as if they're sat in some diner over lunch. "So fucking crazy. It doesn't even matter what we're doing, you just always drive me mad. Don't know what to do with myself sometimes, the way you make me feel." He twists his finger and Sam makes this little noise in his throat. His heart's hammering, and god, he wants it so bad. Dean keeps it slow though, sliding a second finger into him as slowly as he can. "You have no idea. When you were still a kid practically, I wanted you then. It was so fucking wrong but I wanted you all the time. Wanted to make my time with you, make it really good, show you the ropes. Didn't hope for much more than that."

"Dean," Sam starts, again, feeling awkward and stupid, repeating himself again like this, but Dean twists his fingers just right and he moans instead of whatever he meant to say.

"So now all the time... I know how good it is, you know? I know I don't really deserve it. Don't tell me I do, I know what you think, and I think you're wrong. And everytime I think something is too much to ask and I've finally pushed my luck too far, you just... you come through for me."

"Chick flick moment," Sam says, even though he wants to hear more. Dean makes this annoyed noise and crooks his fingers again and Sam bucks on his lap, moans again. He has to grab a pillow to bury his face in, to keep the noise down. He grips it tight like that's gonna keep him together somehow. "Fuck, Dean."

"Not yet," Dean says, which is lame as hell as a comeback, but Sam can't tell him that because he's too occupied with the feeling of Dean's fingers inside him, pushing deeper, driving him fucking crazy. "Gonna fuck you so careful," he whispers, right into Sam's ear, and Sam shivers at the feel of his breath. "So slow."

"You mean -- ah," Sam arches as Dean's fingers move inside him again, "ah, you mean you're going to tease."

"Same thing," Dean says, grinning. "It is my turn, after all."

\---

The ceiling is actually white, which is kind of surprising, in this kind of place, and in this kind of light. Sam's used to ceilings that are yellow-ish, at best. But this one is white. It's a funny thing to notice, but he doesn't exactly have enough energy to move right now -- and anyway, Dean's lying on top of him, which makes it that much more difficult. He wriggles and Dean just grunts, pressing his face more firmly into Sam's shoulder. It's kind of a nice feeling, since this is almost cuddling, although he'd better not ever mention anything like it or they'll be back to separate beds, or something ridiculous like that.

"You're going to have a job topping this," he says, into Sam's shoulder. He even manages to sound smug, despite having his face mashed against Sam's skin, despite the way his voice is muffled as a result. Sam squirms a little, trying to elbow him, but that's hard when he's underneath him like that, so he settles for a sharp poke in the ribs.

Besides, he has a plan of revenge anyway.

"It's okay," he says, "I've already got a plan."

Dean pushes up a little then, narrowing his eyes. "That sounds ominous."

"You'll just have to wait and see," Sam says, with a lazy grin. He tugs Dean down again, kissing him softly. "You'll enjoy it."

"Yeah, well," Dean starts, but then gets distracted by kissing Sam, which is okay as far as both of them are concerned. Sam's right, anyway, and they both know it.

\---

The girl Dean chose is pretty much his normal type. She has a big smile and a big rack, unnaturally white teeth and a really short skirt. Her voice is a bit too high, grates more than a bit, but they don't want her to talk, so that's just fine. Sam hasn't told Dean what they're doing, but he picked her out himself anyway, and she agreed to what Sam had in mind. She made some ridiculous kind of moaning noise when he whispered it in her ear, but apparently they're just that hot that she's willing to go along with just about anything. Or that could be more of a commentary on her: Sam doesn't care, because this isn't even remotely about her or even him. It's about Dean, and what Dean might want.

It's been a couple of weeks since he told Dean he has a plan, and he's pretty sure Dean's guard was down before he leaned in and told him to pick a girl. Now Dean is skittish, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they wait at red lights, biting his lip hard. Sam has half an eye for the girl in the back seat and her bright, curious eyes, but mostly he's just watching Dean. Now and then he touches him, runs his fingers over the tense line of his neck or even leans in to lick or bite. Dean makes a little noise when he does, body tensing.

He has no idea what to expect, he just wants it. Good.

"Bet you wish you knew what he's got planned," the girl says.

"I trust him to blow my mind," Dean says. He keeps his eyes on the road, but his hands tighten around the wheel again. Sam's pretty sure it's not irritation.

"You look pretty good together," she tells him. "How long have you been his bitch?"

Dean tenses a little more and Sam doesn't know whether that's because he likes it or because he really really doesn't. He strokes the back of Dean's neck again, though, smirks lazily. "Long time," he says, and Dean makes this little sound in his throat that the girl doesn't even hear. "Right, Dean?"

"Right," Dean says.

"That's right, you know, I don't even know your names," the girl says. "Didn't catch them in the club. I'm Traci. With an 'i' at the end."

"Sam and Dean," Sam tells her. He doesn't know if Dean sees the significance in it, in the fact that he said their real names. It's not like anyone's chasing them nowadays, so it's safe, but it's not _normal_. It's something different: another kind of nakedness. He's laying Dean bare, even though he's pretty sure this girl doesn't deserve it. "He's Dean."

"I guessed," she says, with a bright smile, showing teeth. There's a bit of envy in her voice. "You sure I don't get to touch you? Either of you?"

He gives her a quelling look; Dean doesn't need many clues to start figuring out what Sam's planning. "Yes."

"Okay," she says, with an exaggerated pout. "Okay. It'll be good just to watch you. And I can have fun on my own, you know what I mean?" She actually winks at him.

He doesn't really bother dignifying that with an answer. His attention is all for Dean.

"Might wanna speed up," he says, low, mostly just for Dean. "I'm not gonna wait all night."

Dean makes another little noise in his throat and puts his foot down, _finally_.

\---

The main thing that matters is that there's a bed. The lamp doesn't work for a moment, but then it flickers into life. Sam's already kissing Dean, holding him hard and pushing his tongue into his mouth, and Dean's making these little noises -- and Tracy or Traci or whatever her name is makes a little noise too -- and Sam is abruptly worried that this isn't going to take any time at all. He pulls away, ignoring Dean's soft protest and the fact that his mouth is open, lips slightly swollen and shiny with his spit, the fact that he's touching Sam, shoving his hands up under his shirt. Well. For a certain value of _ignoring_, anyway.

"Sit down over there," he tells the girl, nodding to a chair, and she nods too, smiling.

"And shut up?" she asks, smiling, with a warmth in her voice, and Sam surprisingly finds himself liking her. Despite the grating pitch of her voice.

"Yeah," he says, giving her a smile back. "If you don't mind."

"Hey, I don't want to get kicked out."

Sam nods and looks back at Dean, lets himself take note of Dean's insistent tugging on his shirt. He grins and hauls it off. "Eager, huh?" he says to Dean, and Dean makes this huffy little noise and drags his own shirt off.

"You're the one who was trying to lick my tonsils a minute ago."

Sam rolls his eyes and undoes Dean's belt. He doubles it up, gives Dean a quick swat on the thigh with it, light enough that it doesn't really matter -- hard enough to make a visible shudder run through Dean. His lips part again and Sam takes advantage of it, kissing him stupid. He undoes Dean's pants while he's doing that, brushes his fingers over his crotch teasingly. "Get on the bed."

"Sam -- "

"Do it."

"Yes sir," Dean says, low and hot, and Sam gives him another quick lick with the belt before he drops it.

"Now," he says, and watches as Dean crawls up on the bed. He doesn't look at Traci -- how much difference does the 'i' make anyway? -- but his voice is pitched for her ears. "Look at you," he says, "look at you, all eager for it. You don't even know what I'm going to do."

Dean's eyes flick to the belt and then to Sam's face. "Might have given me some ideas."

Sam's kind of surprised by that. "Not this time." He sits down, pats his lap. "Get here. Lying down, not straddling me." He's positioned them so that Traci will be able to see it all -- so that she'll be able to see Dean's face, which is the most important part. Dean's used to strange girls eyeing him up, has a long habit of indulging them, in fact, but this is going to be different. It almost doesn't matter what Traci can see as long as she can see Dean's face, see him open, wide-open. "Remember doing something like this?"

Dean moves against him a little, once he's settled. Whimpers, even. "Yes."

"Pity we haven't got a mirror, huh? So you could watch yourself. But Traci's here. Traci can see you, Dean."

The little noise Dean makes is even better than Sam anticipated, and the way he's acting -- he's wide-open already, Sam thinks, and everything he does is just going to lever him open more, leave him vulnerable. And Dean doesn't care -- even _wants_ it -- and he wonders how many of Dean's wants are colliding together here, tangling up in each other, tripping him up, making him shake with want for it.

Dean jerks against him the first time he slaps him. It isn't even that hard, at all, but he makes this strangled noise anyway. It makes Sam's cock jerk, and he kind of wishes he'd taken his jeans off already. Doesn't matter, though. Dean matters, but that's just about all. He slaps Dean again, still lightly, and listens for the dual intakes of breath -- Dean, and Traci.

"You look so good together," she says, as if half-unwillingly, and then, "Sorry."

Dean shudders, though, when she speaks -- Sam doesn't think that's because he's annoyed by her voice, not at this stage. He seems to like the reminder that someone's watching him. "Open your eyes," Sam tells him, and he can't see Dean's face from this angle, but he's pretty sure he obeys. It wouldn't be like Dean to start acting up now, not when he's getting what he wants.

The rest of it is an unfortunate blur in Sam's memory. He wants to hold onto every detail but mostly he just remembers how fucking hot it is, how Dean rocks against him and moans and even whimpers, and how he's pretty sure Traci stops even blinking after a while. He doesn't just keep slapping Dean hard every time, nor in the same place -- he teases sometimes, stops and just touches him, feels the heat of his reddened skin, or makes him spread his legs a bit and touches his entrance. Dean seems to love it all, panting and arching, rubbing against Sam's leg when he can. Sam's not sure exactly when Dean starts pleading, but that's really good too, the way he clutches the bedcovers and gasps out _please_ and _Sammy_ and _harder, oh fuck, do it harder_.

When Sam stops, Dean looks _wrecked_. His lips are even more bitten now, and he keeps shaking even when Sam stops touching him. "Sammy," he whispers, and he'd sound broken if Sam didn't know better. "Oh come on, please." His ass is all red, the tops of his thighs too, and Sam can feel how hard he is, how slick, and _Jesus_.

"Fuck him," Traci says -- she kept silent most of the time, and Sam hasn't even looked at her since the beginning of this, but her voice is a little hoarse. "Jesus Christ, fuck him already."

"Yeah," Sam says, 'cause she has a very good idea anyway, and he fumbles for lube quickly. "You want that, Dean?"

"_Yes_," Dean says, almost a sob in his voice. Sam doesn't exactly take his time about preparing him, shoving him face-down on the bed and doing it quickly, roughly. Dean doesn't seem to mind, arching into it, gasping, and there's a lot more of the _yes_ and the _Sammy_ before Sam's done. Sam fumbles, gets his jeans undone and that's all, pulls his cock out -- no more patience to actually get naked. He pushes into Dean hard, one quick drive, and somewhere in the back of his head a more cautious voice is scraping at his consciousness, but Dean just arches and moans and Traci makes this little noise too, and yeah, this is just fine, this is just right.

\---

"We've got to stop doing this, Sammy," Dean says. Traci's long gone by now. Dean's sprawled out all over the bed, his head is on Sam's thigh, and he's pretty much the picture of post-coital satisfaction. That doesn't lend much weight to his words, and, Sam feels, justifies his little snort.

"Why? Too much for your dignity?"

Dean just smiles, lazy-sweet, and turns a little so he can look up at Sam's face. "Nah. I just think, if we keep coming that hard, we're going to have heart attacks."

He looks fucking gorgeous, his lips dark and bitten, his whole body slack with afterglow. Sam could almost find enough energy for another round, just looking at him and thinking about his mouth and what he could do with it. All he does, though, is reach up and run his fingers through Dean's hair, almost petting him. He's not exactly surprised when Dean stretches just a little, pushes into it.

"I think I'll risk it," he says, tugging just a little at the longer strands. Dean makes a little noise.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dean stretches out more, idly running his hands over Sam's body, stroking his knee. He's still smiling openly. "Me too."

Sam will work up the energy to kiss him for that, sooner or later. For now, he just slides his fingers through Dean's hair again, makes another mark on his inner map of _them_. "Good."


End file.
